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AIRS  AND  BALLADS 


EDITED  BY  JOHN  McCLURE 
THE  STAGS'  HORNBOOK 


AIRS  AND  BALLADS 

By    JOHN     McCLURE 


New  York    ALFRED  A.  KNOPF     Mcmxviii 


COPYRIGHT,  1918,  BY 
ALFRED  A.  KNOPF 


PRINTED    IN    THE    UNITED    STATES    OF    AMEBICA 


To. 


I  am  indebted  to  the  editors  of  Smart  Set  for 
permission  to  include  in  this  volume  the  follow- 
ing verses:  "Elf's  Song,"  "Chanson  Naive," 
"  Home,"  "  Songs  of  His  Lady,"  "  The  Neck- 
lace," "Carol,"  "Song,"  "Homage,"  "To  a 
Lady,"  "  I  Could  Forgive,"  "  Song:  Old  Style," 
"  Man  to  Man,"  "  The  Celts,"  "  The  Needy  Poet 
Invoketh  the  Gods,"  "  After  Reading  in  a  Book 
of  Love  Songs,"  "  The  Merry  Men,"  "  Ego," 
"  The  Everlasting  Yea,"  "  All  They  That  Pass 
By,"  "  The  Lass  of  Galilee,"  and  "  Finis  " :  to  the 
editor  of  Poetry  for  permission  to  include  "  To 
His  Lady,  Philosophy " ;  and  to  the  editor  of 
Others  for  permission  to  include  "  Visitants," 
"  Wanderer,"  and  "  Somnambulist."  A  few  of 
these  verses  have  appeared  in  the  University  of 
Oklahoma  Magazine. 

I  owe  a  particular  debt  of  gratitude  to  Mr. 
H.  L.  Mencken  of  the  Smart  Set,  which  I  take 
pleasure  in  acknowledging.  He  has  been  a  very 
good  friend  to  me  indeed,  as  has  his  colleague, 
Mr.  George  Jean  Nathan. 

JOHN  MCCLURE 


CONTENTS 

APOLOGY                     .  13 

ELF'S  SONG  14 

HOME  15 

SONGS  OF  His  LADY  16 

THE  NECKLACE  18 

CAROL  19 

SONG  20 

HOMAGE  21 

To  A  LADY  22 

I  COULD  FORGIVE  23 

GIFTS  24 

SONG:     OLD  STYLE  25 

SONG  26 

His  LADY  IN  ABSENCE  27 

DEIRDRE  28 

WHEN  You  ARE  OLD  29 

CHANSON  NAIVE  30 

I  AM  AWEARY  31 

THE  LOVER  TURNS  IN  His  GRAVE  32 

As  I  LAY  DREAMING  ABED  33 

MAN  TO  MAN  34 

WEARY  35 

THE  DREAM  36 

MAY-DAY  37 

To  A  LADY  38 

IF  I  WERE  THE  ALMIGHTY  GOD  39 

EVEN  UNTO  THE  FAIRIES  40 

APRIL'S  FOOL  41 

THE  CELTS  42 


SUMMER  DAY  43 

HEINRICH  HEINE  44 

COLUMBINE  45 

SPENDTHRIFT  46 

THE  MAD  LADY  47 

THE  NEEDY  POET  INVOKETH  THE  GODS  48 

POETRY  49 

WANDERER  50 

VISITANTS  51 

SOMNAMBULIST  52 

THE  YOUNG  MEN  SPEAK  53 

AFTER  READING  IN  A  BOOK  OF  LOVE-SONGS  54 

THE  MERRY  MEN  55 

THE  DREAMER  56 

IN  THE  HARVEST  57 

CAROL  o'  BETHLEHEM  59 

CAROL  NAIVE  60 

THE  CALVARY  AT  BOULOGNE  61 

EGO  62 

THE  GREY  LEAF  63 

THE  BOON  COMPANION  64 

THE  WAKE  65 

THE  MADMEN  66 

IN  THE  END  67 

THE  EVERLASTING  YEA  68 

ALL  THEY  THAT  PASS  BY  69 

To  His  LADY,  PHILOSOPHY  70 

LADY  OF  APRIL  72 

THE  LASS  OF  GALILEE  78 

ENVOY  83 

FINIS  84 


AIRS  AND  BALLADS 


APOLOGY 

I  am  a  poetaster 
And  my  knee  I  bend 

To  Marlowe,  my  master, 
Villon,  my  friend. 

I  am  a  swashbuckler, 
And  I  break  my  sword 

Before  Blake,  my  tutor, 
Shakespeare,  my  lord. 

I  should  burn  my  song-books 

This  very  day 
If  singing  didn't  matter 

So  little  anyway. 


[13] 


ELF'S  SONG 

She  came  in  the  garden  walking 
When  shadows  begin  to  steal; 

She  trod  upon  a  wing  o'  mine 
And  broke  it  with  her  heel. 

She  was  a  very  queen,  I  think, 
A  queen  from  the  West, 

I  should  have  only  smiled 

Had  she  stepped  on  my  breast. 

But  I  have  told  nobody, 
I  have  told  nobody  yet ! 

I  have  told  nobody 

Only  the  violet. 


[14] 


HOME 

Your  love  is  all  so  quiet 
And  solemn  as  the  sea : 

Like  an  old  song  at  evening 
It  comforts  me. 

For  all  the  merry  mad  loves 
That  wither  and  devour 

Are  paltry  by  the  firelight 
In  the  quiet  hour. 

Yea,  all  the  merry  mad  loves 
That  I  might  have  had 

When  they  rise  up  like  cymbals 
Making  me  sad, 

Your  love  is  all  so  quiet 

It  comforts  me  then, 
Like  an  old  song  at  evening 

Or  books  of  dead  men. 


SONGS  OF  HIS  LADY 

i 
Oh,  I  shall  pluck  the  little  stars 

And  set  them  in  her  golden  hair, 
And  I  shall  pluck  for  her  delight 

All  things  golden  anywhere, 

The  little  flowers  of  the  earth, 
The  little  corals  of  the  sea, 

The  little  dreams  within  my  heart, — 
My  love  shall  have  them  all  o'  me ! 

II 
And  I  shall  weave  into  a  net 

The  dreaming  Pleiad  sisters  seven 
With  all  the  jewels  of  all  the  crowns 

Of  all  the  saints  of  heaven, — 

A  net  of  stars  for  her  to  wear 

To  make  her  dainty  and  fair  to  see, 

So  all  the  princes  of  all  the  world 
Shall  whisper  and  envy  me. 

Ill 
But  she  shall  dress  more  strangely  still; 

In  all  men's  eyes  she  shall  be  seen 
To  wear  my  little  silver  dreams 

Like  tinkling  trinkets  of  a  queen. 

[16] 


Ay,  queenlike,  she  shall  move  them  all 

To  adoration  and  desire; 
For  she  shall  wear  my  golden  dreams 

As  though  they  were  a  robe  of  fire. 


THE  NECKLACE 

The  songs  I  made  in  a  hundred  towns, 
The  songs  I  made  on  a  hundred  ways, 

I  shall  give  them  all  to  my  love-lady 
To  brighten  her  nights  and  days. 

I  shall  hang  them  all  on  her  neck,  I  swear, 
Like  crimson  rubies  and  diamonds  white, 

A  string  of  jewels  for  her  to  wear 
To  make  her  beauty  bright ! 


[18] 


CAROL 

The  month  can  never  forget  the  year; 

The  moth  can  never  forget  the  fire; 
And  I  can  never  forget  my  dear 

Lady  of  High  Desire. 

The  earth  can  never  forget  the  sun; 

The  day  can  never  forget  the  night; 
And  I  can  never  forget  the  one 

Lady  of  My  Delight. 


SONG 

I  watched  the  sun  sink  into  the  sea : 
Red  as  a  rose-petal  was  he. 
I  watched  him  come  in  the  morning  up, 
And  he  was  then  like  a  buttercup. 
And  twixt  the  setting  and  rise  of  sun 
I  dreamed  all  night  of  my  lovely  one. 


[20] 


HOMAGE 

They  follow  their  steadfast  beacons, 

All  wanderers  save  me, 
And  turn  their  prayers  to  Our  Lady, 

Mary,  Star  of  the  Sea. 

I  follow  in  all  my  journeys 

The  will-o'-the-wisp  that  gleams 

Deep  in  your  dark  eyes,  lady  — 
Mother  of  all  my  dreams ! 

They  bring  red  gold  to  the  altar, 
They  build  great  temples  of  stone, 

They  render  to  Caesar  Caesar's 
And  unto  God  His  own. 

I,  too,  give  to  God  and  to  Caesar 
What  thing  to  them  each  belongs, 

But  yours  is  my  singing  heart,  lady  — 
Mother  of  all  my  songs! 


[21] 


TO  A  LADY 

I  will  give  to  you  diamonds  and  rubies 
And  pearls  in  a  golden  crown : 

For  a  smile  of  your  grey  eyes,  lady, 
I  will  tumble  a  mountain  down. 

I  will  give  to  you  garlands  and  roses, 
And  fruit  of  the  blossoming  year, 

Ay,  song-books  and  poems  and  posies, — 
All  these  will  I  give  you,  dear. 

I  will  give  you  my  whole  life's  treasure, 
My  flowers  of  dream  and  of  art  — 

All  things  will  I  give  to  vou,  lady. 
Saving  my  heart. 


I  COULD  FORGIVE 

Love  is  so  very  hard  to  bear, 

Mad  Love  on  his  own  pleasure  bent, 
And  yet  I  think  I  could  forgive 

If  he  were  different. 

I  could  forgive  Love's  wantonness, 

Forgive  that  he  is  blind, 
I  could  forgive  Love  everything 

If  only  Love  were  kind. 


[23] 


GIFTS 

I  will  fetch  ye,  lady, 
Out  of  all  the  earth 

Anything  to  please  ye 
Or  to  make  ye  mirth. 

I  will  fetch  ye  silver 
Out  of  heaven  gate, 

Fashioned  into  goblets, 
Beaten  into  plate. 

I  will  fetch  ye  red  gold 
Tried  and  tempered  well 

In  white  fires  of  limbo 
And  blue  fires  of  hell. 


[24] 


SONG:  OLD  STYLE 

I  sang  one  song  upon  a  time 
To  make  my  lady  smile: 

O,  I  hae  sung  a  hundred  songs, 
But  only  one  worth-while! 

Her  smile  is  like  the  flush  o'  dawn, 
Or  bursting  of  a  flower: 

Her  smile  is  like  the  moon-rise 
At  the  midnight  hour. 

I  sang  a  song  upon  a  time 
That  drew  a  smile  frae  her : 

O,  I  wouldna  barter  her  smile  away 
For  white  silver. 


[25] 


SONG 

Oh,  you  hear  sweet  music 

If  my  love  pass, 
Whisper  o'  the  crow's-foot, 

Murmur  o'  the  grass! 

The  wee  ones  are  ready 
To  give  her  due  to  her 

Who  is  more  dainty  dainty 
Than  the  fairies  were, 

Who  is  so  dainty  dainty 
That  she  doth  surpass 

Blossom  o'  the  primrose, 
Flower  o'  the  grass! 


[26] 


HIS  LADY  IN  ABSENCE 

In  cold  nights  of  winter 
When  all  is  cool  and  still 

The  white  star  is  my  true-love 
And  the  moonlight  on  the  hill. 

But  in  warm  nights  of  summer 
When  evening  airs  are  free 

And  twilight  is  like  magic 
The  new  moon  is  she. 


[27] 


DEIRDRE 

I  see  the  sadness 

In  her  eyes  grey 
That  makes  a  man  pensive 

At  dying  o'  the  day, 

And  I  see  the  paleness 
In  her  cheeks  wan 

That  makes  a  man  wistful 
At  grey  dawn. 


[28] 


WHEN  YOU  ARE  OLD 

Mayhap  when  you  are  old  and  grey 

You  will  remember  me, 
And  nod  your  white  head  and  say: 

"  A  quaint  lean  fellow,  he. 

"  I  remember  the  tricks  of  his  speech, 
The  snatches  he  used  to  sing. 

I  think  he  said  that  he  loved  me 
Better  than  anything." 


[29] 


CHANSON  NAIVE 

I  shall  steal  upon  her 
Where  she  sits  so  white, 

Creep-mouse,  creep-mouse, 
In  the  twilight.  • 

She  sits  in  the  shadows, 
Dreamy,  dreamy  — 

I  shall  go  stealthily 
So  she  cannot  see  me. 

I  shall  steal  behind  her 

And  kiss  her  on  the  cheek 

And  cover  up  her  wee  mouth 
So  she  cannot  speak. 

I  would  fain  surprise  her 

If  so  be  I  might, 
Creep-mouse,  creep-mouse, 

In  the  twilight! 


[30] 


I  AM  AWEARY 

I  am  aweary  of  high  loves, 

Aweary  of  high  desire, — 
Now  I  would  nod  in  the  evening 

Beside  a  quiet  fire. 

When  once  a  man  has  taken  in 

High  love  into  his  breast 
His  heart  becomes  a  crazy  wind 

That  halteth  not  for  rest. 

His  soul  becomes  a  thunderstorm, 

His  heart  a  hurricane, 
And  he  is  but  a  windblown  leaf 

That  will  not  rest  again. 

Ay,  there  is  thunder  on  the  land 

And  lightning  on  the  sea, 
And  thunderwrack  within  their  hearts 

For  them  that  lovers  be.  ... 

So  I  am  aweary  of  high  loves, 

Aweary  of  high  desire; 
Now  I  would  nod  in  the  evening 

Beside  a  quiet  fire. 


THE  LOVER  TURNS  IN  HIS  GRAVE 

You  must  not  remember 

The  dear  things  I  said. 
Please  forget  me,  lady, 

Since  I  am  dead. 

Like  a  dream  at  twilight, 

Like  a  mist  of  dawn, 
I  am  dead  and  gone,  lady, 

I  am  dead  and  gone. 

You  must  not  remember. 

Please,  please  forget. 
You  can  find  a  lover 

Kindlier  yet. 

I  cannot  hear  your  mourning, 
Nor  know  the  tears  you  shed. 

Please  forget  me,  lady, 
Since  I  am  dead. 


[32] 


AS  I  LAY  DREAMING  ABED 

As  I  lay  dreaming  abed 

Between  the  night  and  the  day 
It  suddenly  entered  my  head 

How  all  folk  are  fey. 

It  suddenly  entered  my  head 

How  he  and  I  and  she 
Would  suddenly  pass  away 

And  vanish  utterly. 


[33] 


MAN  TO  MAN 

Better  it  were,  my  brother, 
You  twain  had  never  met, 

Then  were  no  hearts  broken 
And  no  dream  to  forget. 

Now  you  must  not  remember, 

After  you  are  gone, 
The  mystic  magic  of  her  eyes 

At  twilight  nor  at  dawn. 

Now  you  must  not  remember 
The  songs  her  red  lips  sing 

Of  love  and  lovers'  ecstasy 
At  dawn  or  evening. 


[34] 


WEARY 

Days  were  aforetime 

When  I  sang  as  ye 
Quaint  words  of  loving 

And  maid-witchery, 

Quaint  words  of  loving 
And  two  brown  eyes, 

Mock-tears  and  laughter 
And  sometimes  sighs. 

But  that  was  in  the  old  days 

Ere  I  came  to  see 
The  shadow  in  the  eyes 

Of  a  weird  lady. 

I  have  tried  to  sing  again 

Since  I  saw  her 
Quaint  words  of  loving 

And  heart-murmur. 

I  have  tried  to  sing  again, 

But  it  cannot  be. 
I  am  sharply  torn  and  broken 

And  sore  weary. 


[35] 


THE  DREAM 

In  a  strange  grove  of  poplars 

In  a  strange  far  place 
She  came  to  me  between  the  trees 

With  white  death  on  her  face. 

She  came  between  the  poplar  trees 
And  wandered  at  my  side : 

It  was  beyond  the  mind  of  man 
To  think  that  she  had  died. 

It  was  beyond  the  mind  of  man 
Even  to  dream  her  dead. 

I  knew  the  music  of  her  voice 
In  every  word  she  said. 


[36] 


MAY-DAY 

A  ripple  of  wild  wind-laughter 
Shakes  the  leaves  of  the  tree, 

And  I  hear  the  children  under  it 
Carolling  merrily. 

"  And  will  ye  no'  kiss  her,  Robbie? 

And  will  ye  no'  kiss  Fifine  ? 
Then  are  ye  a  jack-ass,  Robbie, 

For  she's  May  Queen !  " 


"  And  will  ye  no'  kiss  her,  Robbie? 

And  will  ye  no'  kiss  her,  say? 
Then  are  ye  a  jack-ass,  Robbie, 

For  she's  the  Queen  o'  the  May !  " 

Dear  God !     My  little  children, 

Gin  ye  but  only  knew 
Ye  wouldna  carol  so  merrily 

To  all  ye  do, 

Gin  ye  but  only  knew, 

Little  lass,  little  lad  — 
The  little  little  children 

Make  my  heart  sad. 


[37] 


TO  A  LADY 

Your  face  is  like  a  child's,  lady, 
Whenever  you  smile  just  so. 

It  minds  me  of  the  little  cherubs 
Of  Rafaell'  Sanzio. 

It  minds  me  of  the  little  angels 
That  frolic  and  chirp  and  sing 

In  the  golden  gardens  of  heaven 
At  God's  bidding. 


[38] 


IF  I  WERE  THE  ALMIGHTY  GOD 

If  I  were  the  Almighty  God 

Sitting  in  heaven  high, 
I  would  barter  my  starry  hood 

For  a  twinkle  of  her  eye. 

I  would  barter  my  silver  staff, 
My  girdle  of  golden  thread, 

All  for  the  mischief  of  her  laugh 
Mocking  my  hoary  head. 

I  would  give  her  eternal  space, 
Dappled  with  stars  for  flowers, 

Where  she  might  wander  before  my  face 
And  squander  her  laughing  hours. 


[39] 


EVEN  UNTO  THE  FAIRIES 

Snuck  sings: 

Violet,  loving  the  shade, 

Primrose,  loving  the  sun, 
Each  is  a  beautiful  maid  — 

Which  is  the  lovely  one? 

Snack  sings: 

I  am  the  love  of  the  violet. 

Though  by  the  side  of  her 
You  set  a  diamond,  a  sapphire  —  yet 

She  were  the  lovelier. 

Snick  sings: 

I  am  the  love  of  the  primrose. 

Whatever  the  blind  dogs  sing 
There  is  a  beauty  in  my  primrose 

Beyond  all  reckoning. 

Whereupon  a  little  old  withered  fairy,  who  has 
lived  during  the  life  of  many  violets,  during  the 
duration  of  many  primroses,  sings: 
You  that  love  so  the  violet, 

You  that  are  fond  with  the  rose, 
Know  you  that  all  love  goes  ? 
Even  the  love  of  the  violet, 
Even  the  love  of  the  rose? 


[40] 


APRIL'S  FOOL 

I  loved  a  lady  once  — 
Tweedle-dum,  tweedle-di ! 

Ah,  what  a  merry  dunce 
In  the  mad  world  was  I. 

Love  was  a  fairyland. 

Life  was  to  me 
All  playing  of  fiddles 

And  minstrelsy. 

All  the  mad  world  was  fair, 
All  the  trees  green, 

I  was  a  jester  there 
To  a  gay  queen. 

I  was  a  knight-at-arms, 

I  was  a  king, 
I  would  brave  death  for  her, 

Caper  or  sing. 

Tweedle-dum,  tweedle-di ! 
What  a  mad  fool  was  I ! 


[41] 


We  are  the  grey  dreamers 

With  nets   of  moonlight 
That  always  go  a-hunting 

About  the  fall  o'  night, 

That  softly  go  a-hunting 

In  quest  of  strange  birds 
With  a  thin  net  of  moonlight, 

A  grey  net  of  words, 

That  steal  through  dim  forests 

By  dark  Lethe-streams 
With  pale  snare  of  moonshine 

And  grey  bait  of  dreams, 

Until  we  catch  the  prize-catch, 

The  queer  bird  we  get, 
The  dreamy,  fluttering  Soul  o'  the  World 

Caught  in  a  silver  net. 


[42] 


SUMMER  DAY 

I  walked  upon  a  little  hill 

Where  the  wind  came  running  by 
With  quick  march-music  in  my  feet 

And  a  dream  before  my  eye. 

I  walked  among  the  slender  flowers 
That  nodded  from  the  grass, 

I  heard  them  laugh  like  city-folk 
To  see  a  poet  pass. 

And  I  laughed  to  the  laughing  flowers 
And  the  white  clouds  in  the  sky, 

And  I  dreamed  a  dream  and  forgot  it 
While  the  wind  went  running  by. 


[43] 


HEINRICH  HEINE 

Heinrich  Heine,  Heinrich  Heine, 
All  the  trinkets  I  have  wrought 

I  will  bring  ye,  Heinrich  Heine, 
Ye  beloved  good-f or-naught ! 

I  will  bring  ye  rhymes  like  apples, 
Rhymes  like  tarts  and  cherry-pies, 

Dainty  rhymes  like  cherry-blossoms, 
Gaudy  rhymes  like  peacocks'  eyes, 

Rhymes  that  echo  like  a  prayer, 
Rhymes  that  tinkle  like  a  bell, 

Heinrich  Heine,  Heinrich  Heine, 
Ye  beloved  ne'er-do-well ! 


[44] 


COLUMBINE 

A  year  agone  the  rose  was  gay, 

The  thorn-tree  garmented  in  green, 

The  sunshine  on  the  garden  lay 
And  Columbine  was  queen. 

A  year  agone  the  birds  were  here, 
Small  sparrows  piping  high  and  low, 

And  Pierrot's  heart  was  full  of  cheer 
As  it  is  heavy  now, 

For  now  the  trees  stand  barren  all, 
The  petals  of  the  rose  are  shed, 

The  moonlight  floods  the  garden  wall 
And  Columbine  is  dead. 


[45] 


SPENDTHRIFT 

I  cannot  carry  my  money, 
'Tis  gone  before  I  know: 

I  lose  coins  out  of  my  pocket 
Or  squander  them  as  I  go. 

I  cannot  carry  my  dreams 
Nor  barter  them  for  bread : 

I  squander  them  like  pennies 
Or  lose  them  out  of  my  head. 


[46] 


THE  MAD  LADY 

Flowers  are  springing. 

Wherever  we  look 
Spring  comes  like  a  lady 

Out  of  a  book. 

With  sudden  laughter 
Mad  Spring  is  loose  — 

Just  like  the  lady 
In  Mother  Goose, 

Gaudy  and  gay 

Through  the  world  she  goes 
With  rings  on  her  fingers 

And  bells  on  her  toes. 


[47] 


THE  NEEDY  POET  INVOKETH  THE 
GODS 

May  all  the  hidden  deities 

Of  fair  luck  befriend 
My  toe  that  peepeth  coyly 

From  my  shoe's  end! 

My  toe  that  peepeth  coyly 

Like  a  wee  maid 
Void  of  worldly  wickedness 

And  somewhat  afraid, 

My  toe  that  peepeth  coyly 

Fearing  sore  to  get 
Scratched  upon  a  cobblestone 

Or  damnably  wet. 

May  all  the  hidden  deities 

Of  fair  luck  befriend 
My  toe  that  peepeth  coyly 

From  my  shoe's  end ! 


[48] 


POETRY 

Poetry?  .  .  . 

The  voice  that  leaps  up 

With  the  spring-water 

And  thunders 

Out  of  the  mountain. 


[49] 


WANDERER 

Why  do  ye  find  me  in  these  waters? 
Well,  the  old  wander-dog  in  me  whined. 
So  we  came,  baying  at  the  moon, 
Wistfully  over  the  world. 


[50] 


VISITANTS 

In  the  pale  hours 

Often  they  come  to  me  stealthily, 

Tremulous, 

Ghostly  with  twilight, 

Vain  as  air, — 

The  wraiths  of  the  gone  folk, 

Whispering, 

Bidding  me  be  of  good  cheer, 

Good  hope. 


SOMNAMBULIST 

Last  night  I  went  a-walking  with  my  dreams, 

Folk  such  as  ye  have  never  seen  the  like  of, 

With  faces  like  moonlight  on  water, 

Wistful  folk. 

One  of  them  had  eyes 

The  colour  of  will-o'-the-wisp, 

And  another  had  hair 

The  colour  of  wind. 

We  walked  in  silence 

In  a  grey  wood 

Until  dawn. 


[52] 


THE  YOUNG  MEN  SPEAK 

Shall  they  be  too  stern  with  us 

That  we  were  dazzled  by  the  grey  eyes  of  women? 

All  the  world  hath  been  so  — 
Centuries  ere  we  came. 
It  is  not  our  fault. 
All  the  world  hath  been  so 
Since  time  was. 

Shall  they  be  too  stern  with  us 

That  we  were  tangled  beyond  all  hope 

In  the  long  hair  of  women? 


[53] 


AFTER  READING  IN  A  BOOK  OF  LOVE- 
SONGS 

I  wish  that  some  black  god  of  aforetime  would 
arise  out  of  the  earth  and  damn  them 

For  their  singing  of  women's  beauty  and  quick 
passion  and  love's  delight. 

I  wish  that  some  black  god  of  aforetime  would 
arise  and  make  wind  of  these  things 

And  scatter  them  like  quick  breaths  off  the  page. 

I  wish  that  this  would  happen  with  the  sudden- 
ness of  death  and  disaster 

Because  of  the  wild  beauty  of  their  songs. 


[54] 


I  love  the  farce  men  — 

Bien  heureux  est  qui  rien  n'y  a! 

They  that  go  skipping 

With  light  laughter 

Bound  to  no  woman, 

They  that  are  as  goats 

In  the  world 

Knowing  not  sadness. 

I  love  the  farce  men  — 

Bien  heureux  est  qui  rien  n'y  a! 


[55] 


THE  DREAMER 

My  ears  are  battered  night  and  day 
By  a  merry  horde  that  sings 

In  ballad  and  in  roundelay 
Of  kindly  earthly  things. 

And  sure,  I  shall  love  forever 
A  gentle  or  thundering  song, 

But  I  —  I  can  never  sing  rarely 
Because  I  have  dreamed  too  long. 

Good  sooth,  I  have  lost  it  wholly, 
The  frolicsome  human  touch ! 

Nay,  I  —  I  can  never  sing  good  songs 
Because  I  have  dreamed  too  much. 


[56] 


IN  THE  HARVEST 

The  sun  shines  hot  from  a  clear  sky. 

I  laugh  and  lay  my  pitchfork  by. 

Why  work  for  food  and  drink  and  bed 

When  one  has  dreams  within  one's  head? 

In  this  world  it  is  best  to  sit 

In  silence  and  consider  it. 

Ay,  while  the  slipshod  minutes  flee, 

This  is  the  sweetest  work  for  me, 

To  lie  a-dreaming  dreamily 

And  watch  great  God  Almighty's  fleet 

Drive  slowly  over  the  fields  of  wheat  — 

With  a  salt  sea-song  in  my  throat 

Lie  belly-upward,  taking  note 

How  solemnly  go  by 

Those  galleys  of  the  sky. 

The  little  ants  among  the  grass 
Upon  their  daily  routine  pass. 
The  farmer  lads  make  the  wheat  fly. 
Say,  do  I  envy  them?     Not  I. 
The  horses  that  the  reaper  pull 
Know  not  the  world  is  beautiful. 

I  watch  the  great  white  clouds  go  by 
Like  ships  across  the  open  sky 
Until  a  magic  memory 
Of  sounding  surge  comes  back  to  me, 
[57] 


And  here,  forgetful  of  it  all  — 
The  busy  men,  the  farmer's  call 
I  lie  a-dreaming  dreamily 
About  the  sea-gulls  and  the  sea. 


[58] 


CAROL  O'  BETHLEHEM 

Mary  stood  at  the  manger-side 
With  her  elbows  on  the  rim; 

He  smiled  the  whimsical  sweet  smile 
That  shamed  the  cherubim, 

Then  straightway  tossed  His  little  legs, — 
The  hay-pricks  tickled  Him. 

Mary  laughed  and  bent  down  low  — 
Mary,  blessed  of  God's  grace !  — 

He  curled  His  little  pink  toes  up 
And  gurgled  in  her  face: 

Then  pulled  her  hair  right  sturdily 
In  that  calm  holy  place. 

Ay,  Jesus  was  a  baby  too, 

And  plucked  His  Mother's  hair. — 
She  loved  Him  much  more  thus,  I  ween, 

Than  as  King  anywhere. 


[59] 


CAROL  NAIVE 

Was  never  none  other 
Like  our  God's  Mother. 

I  sing  the  Lady  of  all  most  fair, 
Of  all  most  dainty  and  debonair, 
She  to  whose  feet  the  angels  come, — 
Lady  Mary  of  God's  Kingdom ! 

I  sing  the  Lady  of  all  most  good, 
Immaculate  Lady  of  Motherhood, 
She  that  holdeth  our  hearts  in  fee, — 
Lady  Mary  of  God's  City ! 

I  sing  the  Lady  of  all  most  dear, 

She  that  cherished  us  yesteryear, 

She  that  will  cherish  when  this  world  dies,- 

Lady  Mary  of  Paradise ! 

Yet  was  never  none  so  fair, 
Yet  was  never  none  so  good, 
On  the  green  earth  anywhere 
As  Our  Lady  of  Motherhood. — 

Yet  never  none  other 
Like  our  God's  Mother. 


[60] 


THE  CALVARY  AT  BOULOGNE 

At  Boulogne-by-the-Sea 
Christ  Jesus  startled  me. 

I  saw  upon  a  hill 

His  cross  against  the  sky 
Peering  toward  the  sea 

Where  the  swift  ships  went  by. 

He  peered  toward  the  sea 

With  his  sad  face 
Waiting  for  his  folk  to  come 

From  a  far  place, 

Waiting  for  his  folk  to  come 
Which  they  never  will  — 

Peering  toward  the  grey  sea 
From  a  high  hill. 


[61] 


EGO 

My  members  wither  like  weeds. — 

Yea,  as  all  matter  must, 
My  blood  and  my  hair  and  my  tender  eyes, 

And  my  heart,  are  coming  to  dust. 

And  the  trees  and  the  hills  and  the  flowers, 
And  the  planets  that  sail  the  skies, 

The  worlds,  with  the  years  and  the  hours, 
Wither  to  wind  likewise. 

These  make  my  visible  garment, 

And  go  fast  fleeting  away. 
But  I  am  not  startled  or  daunted, 

Who  know  I  am  greater  than  they. 


[62] 


THE  GREY  LEAF 

Lo,  the  sea-tides  eternally  seek 

What  they  shall  not  find  : 
And  the  worlds  —  though  they  struggle  to  speak, 

They  are  tongueless  and  blind  — 

But  I  —  I  am  not  of  their  kind  I 

Night  —  wind  and  the  night  — 

What  though  the  stars  are  at  play 

And  rustles  the  wind  in  delight 

As  it  waits  for  the  coming  of  day !  — 
Lo,  I  am  more  happy  than  they. 

For  the  stars  they  must  twinkle  on 

And  always  the  wind  must  blow: 
Ever  when  I  am  gone 

They  shall  twinkle  and  bluster  so. — 

But  I  —  I  have  come  and  I  go. 


[63] 


THE  BOON  COMPANION 

Were  the  earth  but  lighter  upon  him 
My  sorrow  were  lighter  too ; 

Then  might  I  strew  on  him  willow 
And  flowers  of  purple  and  blue, 

Ay,  twine  on  his  grave  green  willow 
And  flowers,  and  let  him  be, — 

The  noblest,  brave  good-fellow 
Ever  walked  on  the  road  with  me. 


[64] 


In  the  little  house  across  the  street 

A  man  is  lying  dead, 
Two  watchers  sitting  at  his  feet, 

A  watcher  at  his  head. 

He  lies  quite  quietly,  I  ween, 
In  his  grave-clothes  cut  so  trim, 

For  he  to  the  world  is  nothing  at  all, 
And  the  world  is  nothing  to  him. 

But  though  his  breath  have  taken  flight, 

His  merry  soul  be  gone, 
Of  all  the  dead  in  the  world  tonight, 

He  is  hardly  the  only  one. 

I  lie  here  also  in  my  bed, 

Who  would  as  well  have  died, 

With  two  dreams  watching  at  my  head 
And  one  dream  at  my  side. 


[65] 


THE  MADMEN 

And  still  the  madmen  scream 
That  the  world  is  but  a  dream. 

They  know  far  more  than  we 
Who  take  it  seriously. 

An  we  would  hark  to  such, 
I  swear  we  could  learn  much. 

Ay,  one  day  we  shall  scream 
That  it  is  but  a  dream. 


[66] 


IN  THE  END 

Now  God  has  forgot 
The  dream  that  He  had : 
The  world  is  not, 
It  is  gone  like  mad. 

And  He  lies  asleep 
While  the  grey  winds  leap, 
The  grey  winds  race 
Through  space. 


[67] 


THE  EVERLASTING  YEA 

Always  the  world  is  beautiful. 

Spring  comes  and  with  it  the  rose. 
"  But  what  of  the  roses  that  bloomed  and  fell? 

Singer  of  songs,  what  of  those?" 

Always  the  dream  is  beautiful. 

Spring !  and  the  lovers  are  come ! 
"  But  what  of  the  lovers  that  loved  and  died? 

Ah,  singer  of  songs,  thou  art  dumb!  " 

Dumb  am  I  ?     Dumb  am  I  ?     Fool  that  thou  art ! 

Spring  comes  with  the  whirl  of  the  year, 
And  the  old  old  roses,  the  old  old  dream, 

And  the  old  old  lovers  are  here. 


[68] 


ALL  THEY  THAT  PASS  BY 

I  heard  the  Salvation  Army 
Beating  their  praying-drum 

On  the  crowded  street  of  the  city 
Where  the  mad  folk  go  and  come, 

Blowing  their  praying-trumpet, 
Calling  our  ears  to  their  crier 

Telling  about  the  judgment  of  God 
To  set  the  world  on  fire, 

Blowing  their  praying-trumpet, 
Beating  their  praying-drum, 

Kneeling  to  God  in  terror, 
Calling  to  sinners  "  Come !  " 

And  oh,  they  were  terribly  earnest, 

Bowed  in  a  solemn  row 
At  the  side  of  the  city  side-walk 

Where  the  world-mad  come  and  go. 

But  they  gazed  with  wistful  faces 

On  many  a  laughing  eye. 
It  seemed  there  was  no  use  praying 

Where  the  painted  ladies  went  by. 


[69] 


TO  HIS  LADY,  PHILOSOPHY 


The  beautiful  ladies  of  old  time 
That  walked  like  angels  and  were  as  fair 
Are  dead  and  vanished  and  no  man's  rhyme 
Can  paint  them  truly  as  once  they  were. 
Like  pale  shadows  in  moonlight 
Vanished  they  are  upon  strange  ways 
Sudden  as  snow  —  Villon  was  right  — 
The  beautiful  ladies  of  old  days. 
But  you  stay  always,  you  most  dear, 
Though  the  harlots  come  and  the  harlots  go, 
Walking  in  pomp  and  in  great  show, 
Still  you  are  with  me,  still  are  here, 
More  faithful  far  in  a  thousand  ways 
Than  the  beautiful  ladies  of  old  days. 

II 

One  thing  I  know  most  certainly, 
You  will  not  pester  me  nor  chide: 
You  will  not  quarrel  much  nor  be 
Unkind  or  hasty  to  deride 
When  I  am  stupid  with  my  dreams. 
You  will  not  cackle  much  nor  joke 
When  I  am  dazzled  by  the  gleams 
Of  fen-fires  in  a  world  of  smoke 
Or  somewhat  silly  and  insane 
About  the  making  of  a  song, 
[70] 


Nor  mock  me  that  my  face  is  plain, 
Nor  chide  me  that  I  am  not  strong. 
Nay,  kinder  than  a  woman  is, 
You  will  not  mock  my  vagaries. 

in 

When  all  my  heart  is  laden  down 
With  worldly  worries,  worldly  fears, 
You  will  not  pucker  lip  nor  frown 
Nor  make  me  gloomier  with  tears. 
You  will  not  make  my  sorrow  sad 
With  weeping  and  with  wretchedness 
When  all  the  goods  I  ever  had 
Have  vanished  in  the  market's  press. 
You  will  not  sob  nor  make  a  scene 
When  I  come  sadly  home  at  night 
To  tell  you  that  my  hopes  have  been 
Blown  and  blasted  out  of  sight. 
We  two  will  light  our  pipe  o'  clay 
And  laugh  and  blow  the  world  away. 


[70 


LADY  OF  APRIL 


Songs  were  delight  of  life  five  years  agone. 
My  dreams,  a-flutter  on  the  wings  of  rhyme, 
Circled  to  heaven,  battling  with  the  dawn, 
Giddy  as  sky-larks  in  the  olden  time. 
Now  songs  come  slowly,  and  no  more  sublime 
O'er-topping  dreams  blot  out  the  moon  and  sun 
As  in  old  days  when  creeping  prose  was  crime 
And  verse  a  duty.     Now  my  dreams  are  done. 
And  yet  I  think  I  might  go  singing  yet, — 
Ay,  might  make  merry  with  a  random  rhyme 
And  weave  quaint  phrases  to  a  minuet, 
Coining  sweet  music  out  of  fleeting  time, 
If  you  would  listen  to  me  and  be  glad 
And  take  with  laughter  what  few  songs  I  had. 


II 

I  had  rebuked  myself  most  reverendly 
And  said:     "Tut!     Let  love  vanish!"     I  had 

said: 

"  Love  is  a  madness,  an  insanity. 
Forget  it  wholly."     Now,  discomfited, 
I  wonder  how  it  came  about  at  all 
That  I  forgot  all  learning  and  all  sense 
And  fell  a-laughing  and  grew  musical, 
Loving  you  gaily,  with  no  recompense. 

[72] 


"Tut!     Let  love  vanish?"     Faith,   I  will,  my 

dear, 

Let  this  love  vanish,  and  with  little  care, 
In  that  august  apocalyptic  year 
When  earth  and  ocean  vanish  into  air. 

"Tut!     Let  love  vanish!  "  said  I?     Faith,  I 

will 
When  stars  are  ashes  and  the  suns  stand  still. 

ill 

I  have  no  riches.     I  have  never  had 
Great  store  of  gems  —  bright,  gay  and  glittering 

glass. 

I  cannot  give  you  jewels,  dear,  nor  spread 
Silver  and  gold  before  you  as  you  pass. 
I  have  no  domain  neither  on  the  earth. 
I  own  no  meadows,  and  can  never  pick 
Rich  buttercups  and  daisies  for  your  mirth, 
Bluebells  and  pinks,  and  violets  clustered  thick. 
Nay,  I  can  only  give,  as  I  have  done, 
In  lieu  of  gold  and  silver  and  rare  gem, 
Stray  wisps  of  dream  and  fancy  quaintly  spun 
To  weave  and  broider  in  your  garment's  hem. 
In  lieu  of  roses,  on  your  brow  I  set 
Flowers  of  dream  in  a  vague  coronet. 

IV 

Longtime  before  the  world  grew  old  and  grey, 
Wearied  with  wars  and  wistful  for  its  end, 

[73] 


There  was  a  man  in  lordly  Nineveh 
Sang  sonnets  of  a  lady.     Swift  as  wind 
His  like  have  followed  him  in  Babylon, 
Tall  Troy  and  Rome,  Memphis  and  Ispahan, 
A  pack  of  poets  piping  one  by  one 
Sonnets  of  ladies,  since  the  world  began. 
A  million  buried  who  sang  songs  onetime 
Crowd  round  me  eager  and  importune  me 
To  set  your  beauty  in  enamell'd  rhyme, 
Patterned  with  care  and  carven  cunningly. — 

The  world  is  old,  but  merry.     They  are  dead. 

Yet  Love  lives  ever,  and  I  sing  instead. 


And  thus  I  build  a  house  of  beauty,  sweet, 
A  house  of  loveliness  for  you  alone, 
Setting  my  words  like  marble,  trim  and  neat, 
My  mortar,  music,  binding  stone  to  stone. 
I  build  it  firmly  that  it  may  endure 
Somewhile  beyond  us,  if  the  gods  be  good, 
That  you  may  stand  most  queenly  and  secure 
Therein  forever,  as  you  surely  should. 
When  lean  Oblivion  in  aftertimes 
Shall  come  to  call  you  to  his  kingdom,  dear, 
Then  shall  you  stand  in  these  embattled  rhymes 
Safe  from  his  onslaughts  for  a  thousand  year. — 
The  gods  are  laughing.     Well  they  know  that  I 
And  my  mad  sonnets  and  yourself  shall  die. 
[74] 


VI 

Nay,  these  trim  rhymes  shall  not  live  overlong 
Nor  make  men  wonder  after  I  am  dead. 
I  cannot  thunder  such  a  sturdy  song 
As  I  have  whimsied  in  my  giddy  head. 
I  say,  "  This  shall  not  perish!  "  and  I  pen 
Some  prattle  neat  and  prim  of  thee  and  me, 
Better  mayhap  than  some  by  better  men, 
Yet  empty  still  and  wrought  too  curiously. 
Sure,  the  queer  tinkling  of  these  little  words 
Shall  sound  no  longer  ere  Time  tyrant  kills 
Than  the  faint  sheep-bells  of  the  mountain  herds 
Tinkling  one  moment  in  the  eternal  hills. 
Yet  frail,  uncomely  children  that  they  are 
I  pray  you  take  them :  be  their  comforter. 

VII 

Saint  Francis  of  Assisi  —  may  he  rest 

Quiet  eternal  in  his  holy  grave  — 

Said:     "  In  the  wonders  of  the  east  and  west, 

The  mellow  moonlight,  and  the  restless  wave 

Of  the  salt  ocean,  and  the  midnight  sky, 

The  winds  of  morning  and  the  fallow  sod, 

I  see  as  in  a  dream  eternally 

The  changing  shadow  of  Almighty  God." 

The  world  to  me  is  but  a  mighty  dream 

Wherein  the  picture  of  your  beauty  gleams  and 

dies: 

I  find  yourself  reflected  even  with  Him 

[75] 


In  earth,  air,  water,  and  the  winds  and  skies. 
Godwot,  Saint  Francis  was  a  holy  friar, 
And  I  a  blasphemer, —  but  yet  no  liar. 

VIII 

That  pearl  that  Cleopatra  wantonly 
Dissolved  in  wine  and  drank  for  her  delight: 
Those  gems  the  mad  Doge  threw  into  the  sea 
Twinkling  against  the  sunset  on  a  summer's  night  : 
Those  gems,  were  lost  by  a  lone  traveller 
Crossing  the  desert  to  the  prophet's  tomb : 
All  lost  bright  trinkets,  dear,  that  ever  were 
Or  ever  shall  be  till  the  shock  of  doom : 
These  will  I  gather  from  the  world  of  dreams 
—  Who  find  no  gems  nor  jewels  otherwhere  — 
And  lock  them  with  their  weird  unearthly  gleams 
Cunningly  in  a  casket  made  of  air 

Clasped  with  a  wisp  of  music  strange  and  sweet, 
And  lay  them  (all  my  riches)  at  your  feet. 

IX 

When  men  come  by  me  with  complaining  hearts, 
"  Life  is  so  little  worth,  so  little  worth, 
Thinner  than  moonshine  — "  suddenly  there  starts 
A  storm  within  me  of  great  joy  and  mirth. 
Life  is  so  little  worth  then,  dear?     Nay,  nay ! 
I  cry  them  silence.     Have  the  fools  forsworn 
The  winds  and  flowers  and  the  sunlit  day, 
Moonlight  and  starlight,  and  the  flush  of  morn? 

[76] 


I  shall  not  join  their  melancholy  throng 
Now  nor  forever,  sweet,  I  who  have  had 
Gifts  rare  and  wonderful  to  make  me  glad, 
Sunrise  and  sunset,  reverie  and  song 

The  plains,  the  seas,  the  rainfall  and  the  dew, 
The  midnight  sky,  the  mountain  heights  —  and 
you. 


[77] 


THE  LASS  OF  GALILEE 

He  often  said  my  lips  were  sweet.     He  said 

There  was  no  peace  to  be  had  in  the  world 

Like  that  to  be  had  of  a  woman. 

He  said 

Wonderful  beautiful  things  about  my  eyes. 

And  I  laughed  like  a  child,  believing  him, 

Because  he  was  always  so  tender. 

I  forgot  my  mother  and  father  and  all  the  world, 

Believing  him,  because  he  was  always  so  wist- 
ful. .  .  . 

He  was  no  money-maker.  He  was  no  good  car- 
penter. 

But  I  loved  him. 


He  was  always  so  wistful  and  silent. 
He  talked  but  little.     When  he  spoke 
His  words  were  soft  like  whispering. 
There  was  music  in  them  like  that  of  leaves, 
Tender  and  sad. 
He  said  that  he  loved  me. 

My  heart  had  become  a  dream  about  little  chil- 
dren. 

He  was  no  good  carpenter. 
Yet  he  might  have  earned  money  one  day. 
My  heart  had  become  a  dream 
Tremulous  with  the  patter  of  little  feet 

[78] 


And  whisper  of  children.  .  .  . 
He  was  always  so  wistful  and  silent. 

There  was  always  a  sadness  in  his  eyes 

When  he  kissed  me,  a  very  great  sadness. 

I  think  he  was  never  altogether  happy  with  me : 

Yet  he  said  that  he  loved  me.  .  .  . 

He  was  so  wistful. 

He  read  in  great  books 

And  talked  of  things  I  could  not  understand. 

There  was  always  a  sadness  in  his  eyes 

That  I  could  find  no  reason  for. 

Sometimes  it  seemed  that  he  could  not  kiss  me 

enough. 

He  said  there  was  no  peace  in  the  world 
Like  that  to  be  had  of  a  woman. 
Yet  still  he  was  sad. 
When  I  smiled,  he  smiled  too  — 
But  it  was  so  wistful. 

When  I  laughed  with  the  happiness  of  loving  him, 
He  smiled. 

But  it  made  him  seem  so  much  older  than  I. 
He  said  I  was  like  a  little  bird 
That  laughed  without  knowing  the  reason.  .  .  . 
He  seemed  so  old, 
So  much  older  than  I. 
But  he  said  my  lips  were  warm. 
He  loved  wet  kisses.  .  .  . 

[79] 


I  think  he  had  known  few  women. 

But  when  he  told  me  that  he  had  known  none 

I  knew  that  he  lied. 

All  men  are  one.  .  .  . 

He  read  in  great  books. 

I  was  afraid  even  in  those  days 

He  would  forget  me. 

He  was  too  sad  to  remember  a  woman. 

I  wept  at  nights  then 

With  thinking  of  it.  ... 

Yet  he  said  that  he  loved  me. 

Once  he  smiled. 

He  said  the  little  flowers  with  white  petals 

Smiled  all  day, 

And  was  he  less  than  a  flower? 

But  he  was  sad  again  in  no  time. 

Mostly  when  he  smiled, 

I  felt  like  weeping.  .  .  . 

He  needed  taking  care  of. 

He  was  so  wistful  and  helpless. 

He  was  no  good  carpenter. 

One  evening  he  came  and  sat  with  me  a  long  time 
And  said  nothing. 

That  night  he  was  more  tender  than  my  mother. 
Next  morning  they  came  to  me  and  said : 

[80] 


"  He  is  gone.     In  the  direction  of  Samaria. 

Preaching  his  dreams." 

I  never  saw  him  again.  .  .  . 

They    say   he    would    let   no    one    mention    my 
name.  .  .  . 

Now  always  I  sit  with  my  mother  and  spin. 
The  young  men  of  Nazareth  come  often 
Trying  to  talk  with  me. 
They  are  good  carpenters. 
They  come  always  trying  to  talk. 
But  they  are  nothing  to  me.  .   .   . 

Folk    say    he    would    let    no    one    mention    my 
name.  .  .  . 

He  wanted  to  save  the  world, 

Preaching  his  dreams. 

He  did  not  save  it. 

Men  here  where  he  lived  are  evil  still. 

The  men  on  the  other  side  of  the  mountains  are 

evil  as  ever. 

There  is  no  good  in  the  world. 
He  did  not  save  it.  ... 

He  said  that  he  loved  me. 

My  heart  had  become  a  dream  about  little  chil- 
dren. 

My  heart  had  become  a  dream 

[81] 


Tremulous  with  the  patter  of  little  feet 
And  whisper  of  children.  .  .  . 

Now  always  I  sit  with  my  mother  and  spin. 
They  told  me  five  years  ago 
He  was  crucified  in  Jerusalem. 


[82] 


ENVOY 

Prince,  all  the  scholarly  men  that  write 
In  the  daytime,  and  drink  by  night, 
Come  to  the  same  end,  sometime  die : 

Even  you,  even  I. 

Along  that  shadowy  way  have  gone 
Robert  Browning  and  Frank  Villon, 
Robert  Browning  that  was  so  strong, 
Francois,  night-bird,  maker  of  song  — 
For  Death  he  taketh  them  all  along. 


[83] 


FINIS 

I  have  fought  no  mighty  fight ; 

I  have  not  affronted  Fate; 
I  have  kept  no  fire  alight 

Pale  within  no  temple-gate. 

I  have  not  done  anything 
That  is  noble,  brave  or  true; 

Nay,  I  cannot  even  sing 
Rondels  beautiful  or  new. 

I  have  not  been  worth  my  bread. 

Yet  thus  much  I  beg  in  fee, 
When  I  lie  among  the  dead 

Folk  may  murmur  this  o'  me: 

"  Here  lies  one  within  the  tomb  — 
Pencil  stilled  and  parchment  furled 

Who  was  somewhat  overcome 
By  the  beauty  of  the  world." 


THE    END 


[84] 


A     000047812     3 


